


Stability

by GotTea, Joodiff



Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friendship, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-19 22:07:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4762790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GotTea/pseuds/GotTea, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joodiff/pseuds/Joodiff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's late, it's raining, but if she stays the night...<br/>Complete. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stability

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: We own nothing.  
> A/N: This was written in turns of a hundred words each by Joodiff and Got Tea. As an experiment, we think it turned out quite well! :)

**Stability**

by Joodiff and Got Tea

* * *

The late news is just drawing to a close, and Grace is fighting her reluctance to leave the comfort of the big sofa just to confirm what she already knows – that outside it is dark and still raining heavily. Not a night to be driving home if there is a viable alternative. Curled lazily against him, her head tucked easily into his shoulder and her fingers tracing idle patterns across his thigh, she finds herself gazing speculatively at the empty wine glass on the coffee table in front of her and wondering what Boyd would say if she simply announced she was staying the night. It’s something she’s been dwelling on more and more over the last few weeks, as their personal relationship has grown increasingly intimate. Usually, they end the evening at her house, and thus far…

It’s ridiculous, of course. Two people of their age determinedly ignoring the bloody great elephant that manifests itself in whichever room they happen to be when the moment finally comes to part or commit. How can it be possible to share so much, to smash so many unspoken boundaries to pieces, and yet still not quite have the self-confidence to assume that staying for breakfast is implicit in every offer of a nightcap?

It’s ridiculous, alright. Utterly outrageous, even, and, Grace reflects darkly as she glowers at the hands of the ticking clock and their unsubtle reminder that that moment is almost upon them yet again, it seems unlikely that things are going to change anytime soon. Unless…

Hmm…

Tonight the routine does seem to have changed somewhat; this is his house, not hers, and suddenly she finds herself wondering if that’s perhaps a deliberate move on his part – a quiet, gentlemanly inference that the decision is hers to make, that the choice is there. If she wants it. Which she does. Doesn’t she?

It will mean something, if she stays. It will be… significant. An indication that this, whatever _this_ is, is rather more than they have been elegantly pretending. A defence mechanism for them both, she assumes. A self-protective nonchalance that disguises… what? The fear that they might really hurt each other if things don’t fall into place as neatly and easily as they should?

Boyd stirs, just a fraction, and Grace smiles to herself. He’ll deny it if she challenges him, of course, but she’s sure he’s been dozing for at least the last ten minutes. It still astonishes her how placid and indolent he can be, away from work.

Astonishes her, and delights her. The things she is still discovering about him in moments that are unguarded, unfiltered. The tiny insignificant things that fill in the gaps, that build on her already fairly extensive knowledge of who and what he is. She likes it, likes the tiny details, the hidden, obscure interests, the sometimes methodical, sometimes haphazard approach to mundane practicalities of life. And she’s beginning to realise that yes, she does want to share them with him. She does want them to be more than a passing observation.

She wants significance. She wants to stop pretending. She wants… him. All of him.

The concept is both exhilarating and frightening, and maybe that’s part of why they’re still living in an odd sort of limbo somewhere between affectionate old friends and occasional lovers who’ve weaved in and out of each other’s lives for years, and… something much more permanent.

Maybe she’s wrong, Grace thinks, as she feels him move the slightest fraction, as if to relieve tired muscles that have started to stiffen. Maybe there isn’t supposed to be any more to it than this; maybe she should be content with what she has, and not long for more. Maybe she already has as much of him as he’s prepared to give.

But is it really enough, to just keep… existing… as they have been? To deny themselves a chance at real happiness, the possibility of a real life together? It’s not, and she knows it. Knows it with absolute certainty, deep within her heart. If the last year has taught her nothing else, it’s that life is for living and taking chances. That love is far too precious to waste.

She will have to be the brave one, though; she will have to make the decision. And if it goes wrong, she will have to bear the blame.

As the clock prepares to call the hour, she's left with the feeling that her entire future is now resting on just one choice.

“Sounds as if it’s still chucking down out there,” Boyd’s voice says, almost startling her with its proximity.

“Yes,” she agrees. This is the moment when she should announce her intention to leave in the very near future, but she leaves the single word hanging in the air. The evening news has finished, and the capital’s weather forecast – grim – has appeared in its place.

“Bad night to be out on the road.” It sounds like a mild observation, but Grace knows him well enough to be aware of the subtext. As ever, it’s what he’s not saying that is important.

“Mmm,” she agrees, deliberately vague, even as she wonders what he will say next.

Moments pass, but eventually he responds. “Maybe…” It seems he still won’t be the one to say it though. Stubborn to the last, he’s refusing to take the choice away from her.

She wonders what’s going through his mind. What does he think she will say? What does he hope she will say? And why is it so damn important to him for her to make the decision?

“Maybe what?” she asks, voice still deliberately soft, lethargic even. A stark contrast to the tension she can suddenly feel in him, restrained though it is.

"There's a spare room upstairs. Two, in fact."

A whole new level of idiocy and denial. It makes her sit up straight, turn to look at him. His expression is closed, unreadable. All sorts of responses flit through her mind, but she settles on, "Seriously?"

His jaw tightens. She sees it quite distinctly, knows that intimidating, stubborn glare of old. He says, "I don't make assumptions, Grace. You should know that by now."

"Unbelievable." She shakes her head. "Driving home in the pouring rain is looking more attractive by the second."

He says nothing, just stares unblinkingly back at her, clearly unwilling to give any ground. Immeasurably frustrated, Grace pushes herself to her feet and turns away, the big front window suddenly becoming a place of refuge as she pushes the heavy curtains aside and stares out into the uninviting night, wondering what to do. Should she challenge him, try and force an answer from him? Should she risk the explosive nature of a long and bitter argument that could destroy the lingering remnants of what has been a very pleasant evening? Or should she just let it go, leave now and spend the rest of the evening alone and unhappy, content in the knowledge that this meandering status quo of theirs will still be intact and available tomorrow?

“I’m sorry,” he says, and again she’s surprised by how close his voice is. It’s unnerving just how quietly he can move when he wants to. Strong hands come to rest on her shoulders as he halts behind her. A gentle squeeze precedes, “Well, I royally screwed that one up, didn’t I?”

There’s the slightest touch of self-deprecatory humour in his tone, intermingled with more than a little weariness and resignation. It’s enough to take the edge off her annoyance. Not turning round, she allows herself the self-indulgent luxury of a heavy sigh. Watching the raindrops chasing down the outside of the window, she asks, “What are we doing, Boyd?”

His careful offer of, “Just trying our best?” makes her shoulders stiffen, despite the practiced way his thumbs are digging into the muscles there, attempting a soothing sort of motion that that is entirely contradictory to the tension his words are inflicting. It’s the wrong answer, and clearly he knows it, because suddenly his hands still their rhythmic motions, and then a moment later they fall away. The loss of contact resisters profoundly, and Grace shivers, closing her eyes against the onslaught of it all.

Significance. The word tumbles through her mind again, taunting her, tormenting her. Significance. Permanence.

Boyd moves to stand next to her, shoulder-to-shoulder, the way they’ve always been. Risking a sideways glance, she doesn’t miss the intent way he’s staring out at the night, as if all the answers lie out there somewhere, and not here, just within their grasp. She looks away, gathering her thoughts. When she speaks, it’s with perfect, considered calm. “It’s not enough. Just trying our best. At least, it’s not enough for me. Not anymore.”

He looks round and down. “Meaning?”

“Do you really want me to explain it to you in words of one syllable?”

Boyd’s dark eyes narrow. “Are you giving me an ultimatum, Grace?”

Not something that's likely to work well with him; as much as he loves her – and she knows he does in his own idiosyncratic way – he's still just too damn stubborn to deal with that sort of thing. Besides, an ultimatum is not what she wants, not what they need.

No, the question here, she supposes, is in theory very simple; does he love her _enough_?

Enough to try. Enough to let her in. Enough to listen as she tries to share her thoughts and feelings with him. Enough to want to do the same for her in return.

“Of course not,” she says in impatient reply to his question. Starting into motion, she moves away from the window, but she doesn’t return to the sofa. Instead, she chooses the relative safety of the armchair that’s always been her favourite. He turns to watch her, she notices, but doesn’t follow. It will sound like a non-sequitur, but there is purpose to the question she puts to him. “When you were a kid, did you play on all the bombsites?”

“What?” He looks utterly perplexed, but after a moment he shrugs. “Of course. I was born in bloody Deptford – where else was I going to play?”

Ignoring his question, she moves straight in with her next. "And did you ever stop to consider the risks of what you were doing?"

"Of course we did. Everyone knew the risks, and the coppers were quick enough to remind you if they caught you at it."

Her tone is as level as her gaze as she watches him steadily watching her back. "But still you played there?"

"What else were we going to do? We were kids, Grace – we wanted to have fun, enjoy ourselves. We weren't worried about what could go wrong."

"And that's exactly my point."

A look of dawning comprehension replaces the puzzled frown on Boyd’s face. He seems to dissemble with, “We get wiser as we get older.”

“And more afraid to take risks?” she suggests, well-aware of each and every one of the chinks in his formidable armour.

He scowls at that. “Oh, very clever, Grace.”

She doesn’t risk goading him with a smug reply. Instead, she says, “People say you’re not afraid of anything, but they’re wrong, aren’t they? You get just as frightened as everyone else – but what makes you the man you are is your ability to prevent your fear from stopping you.”

“Are you a psychologist, or something?”

Grace ignores his attempt to lighten the mood. “So what’s different this time, Boyd?”

He starts to pace, makes it a length and a half of the room, and then just stops, dropping down onto the sofa and knitting his fingers together, staring down at them as he searches for the words. When they come, they are delivered much more quietly than she expected, but with considerable resolve behind them, as though he has simply given in and is now determined to face the issue. "You're right," he tells her, "it's not enough. I know it isn't. It's hasn’t been enough for a long time."

"But," she prompts as he falters into silence, his hands clenching, the knuckles slowly turning white.

It takes him a moment to look up. “I don’t know, Grace. Part of me doesn’t want to risk losing what we’ve already got…”

“…for what we could have?”

“I’m not saying we have nothing to gain – only that we have a lot to lose.”

“What?” She watches him for a moment. When he doesn’t reply, she prompts, “A good working relationship? Personal friendship? Love?”

“You _know_ what I’m saying.”

“Do I? As far as I’m aware, all those things are already at stake – and have been since we started… this.”

“’This’?”

“Well, how would you describe it?” she demands. “Go on, Boyd – give me your definition of what the bloody hell we are to each other.”

She's known him long enough to know that pacing up and down not only helps him control his impulsive temper, but also helps him think things through, and that's why when he gets to his feet again and starts to move around the room with a steady stride, she's neither surprised, nor annoyed.

The first words out of his mouth, though, are enough to pique the ire that has until now remained relatively controlled inside her. "All of the above."

Angered, her eyes narrow and she utters an irritable, "Not good enough, Boyd!"

His expression remains open though, his speech calm. "Wait a minute, I'm not finished yet. How long have we known each other, Grace?"

“Fifteen, sixteen years.”

“DAC Hall called you in to advise on the Stepney murders – “

“ – and you hit the roof about it,” Grace reminds him, the memories of those long-gone days making her smile almost against her will. “DCI Boyd, the former _enfant terrible_ of Wandsworth CID. You did everything you could to get rid of me.”

“Yes,” he says with uncharacteristic serenity, “because I knew you’d be a complete pain in the arse. Which you were. But, Christ, you knew your stuff. We wouldn’t have got Chadwick without you.”

“You took me out to dinner,” she recalls.

“And we had breakfast at that café on Marlowe Street.”

"Mm." Almost involuntarily, Grace closes her eyes, mind taking her back years in time to a host of bright, sunny days that are long gone now, the one he's referring to in particular standing out quite vividly. "You spilled coffee on that awful grey shirt you were wearing," she recalls, grinning up at him.

"And I had to keep my jacket on all day because of it. In the middle of a bloody heatwave."

"Poor Boyd." There's little in the way of sympathy in her tone, only gentle teasing and a dash of entirely inappropriate amusement as she remembers exactly how it was he managed to spill the hot drink. But then her smile fades as the reason for their conversation creeps back in again. "Anyway, what's your point? Why the trip down memory lane?"

To her surprise, not only does he move closer, but he crouches down in front of her chair. For once it’s Boyd who’s forced to look up. He takes her hands in his, and his voice is gentle and sincere as he says, “Because this is what we are to each other, Grace. Two people who just… fit. Most of the time. The nomenclature isn’t important. We’re just _us_.”

It makes a strange sort of sense, but… She stares down into the oh-so familiar brown eyes. “All right, I’ll give you that. But is it really so wrong of me to want some kind of… stability? After all this time?”

He doesn't try to gloss over her question, doesn't attempt to brush past it. Instead he simply holds her gaze and shakes his head slowly. "No; no, it's not." He sighs, his thumbs stroking slowly over the back of her hands, the gesture tender and intimate.

"Do you really want to keep going the way we have been?"

The rawness of his honesty as he answers startles her, touches her deeply. "No, I don't. But, Grace, aren't you in the least bit afraid that we might lose what we already have? That we might wake up one day with nothing left?"

She considers the questions with some care. He looks so earnest, so apprehensive. Freeing one hand, she reaches out to stroke his hair. “No.”

“No?” Boyd asks, tone somewhere between perplexed and sceptical.

“We already know the best and worst of each other. What’s a few more harsh words and slammed doors here and there? We’ll get over it, we always do. It’s not as if we have any dark secrets left from each other, is it?”

A momentary touch of devilment lights in his eyes. “Well…”

“You’re not funny,” she tells him, but without rancour. She sighs. “I’m not asking you to put a ring on my finger, Peter.”

"No ring..." he echoes, the tiniest flash of what Grace is almost sure is disappointment flitting briefly across his features. It's gone almost before it appears, but she's still left wondering why it was there in the first place. Now is not the moment to be considering such things though – giving herself a firm mental shake, she forces her thoughts back to the issue at hand. His reaction is a topic for another time.

"No," she repeats firmly. "No ring. Just... us."

His smile is back, slowly but surely appearing before her as he considers her words, really considers exactly what it is she's asking him, what she's asking _of_ him. He tilts his head to one side, a mannerism she’s always found endearing. “I have it on good authority that I’m impossible to live with.”

“I have no reason to disbelieve that,” she replies, straight-faced, “however, that’s not an option I’m currently considering.”

“Oh?” He sounds surprised, even a touch offended. “Why not?”

Amused, Grace says, “It’s always all or nothing with you, isn’t it? Mister Impulsive.”

He stands up, long-legged and a little ungainly. “If I wasn’t, we’d never have gone out to dinner in the first place all those years ago, let alone – “

“Boyd…”

“ – had breakfast together the next morning.” His grin is disarming. “What did you think I was going to say?”

"With you, one can never be too sure!"

He laughs – really laughs – the sound rich and deep, and wonderfully reassuring as it breaks up the cloud of uneasiness that has surrounded the last few minutes. It's infectious too, and Grace finds herself joining him, finally relaxing. When he reaches out a hand to her, she takes it without a second thought, letting him pull her effortlessly to her feet; his arms slip around her waist, drawing her body flush against his own and when she leans into him, her own arms twining around his neck he only tightens his hold, one hand slipping beneath the hem of her sweater, thumb brushing lightly across the bare skin he encounters there.

The mild shiver of anticipation that travels down her spine in response gives her libido a gentle nudge, but she’s not prepared to make things too easy for him. Drawing back a considered fraction, Grace schools her features into a deliberate and very serious frown. The quizzical look he gives her in return is all the encouragement she needs to indulge her innate mischievousness. Tone solemn, she asks, “When did we last…?”

A tiny muscle in Boyd’s cheek twitches, betraying the amusement his scowl is no doubt intended to disguise. “It was that memorable, huh? You really know how to hit a man where it hurts, Grace.”

“Right in the delicate masculine ego,” she agrees, provoking a disapproving growl.

Standing up on tiptoe, she moves to press a gentle, easy kiss against his lips but suddenly stops halfway, earning a frown of confusion. It's not hard for her to guess why, but still she finds herself struggling with the direction their conversation has taken, with the lack of complete transparency. The realisation that she needs to hear him actually say the words brings with it a tangled wave of emotion; guilt, frustration and annoyance all descending heavily upon her. Maybe it's that, or maybe it's a combination of everything that has led up to this point, all the time and the moments that have elapsed over years, but, caught by the sudden need for absolute clarity, and for the reassurance of knowing that they really are finally on the same page, she finds herself hesitantly asking, "Stability...?"

Boyd reaches out to trace a line from her cheekbone down to her jaw, the gentlest brush of his fingertips against her skin. His voice is soft, intense. “Do you love me?”

No more games. Her mouth feels very dry as she replies, “You know I do.”

“Then trust me enough to believe that you have it.”

“But – “

“No buts, Grace. There’s only one condition.”

“Which is?”

He lifts his chin a belligerent fraction. “I don’t play well with others. You want me to say I’m committed to you? Fine. I am. Without question. But it cuts both ways. This is will be… an exclusive thing. You’re not the only one who’s in no hurry to get hurt.”

Despite the seriousness of his tone, his touch is still infinitely tender. Grace tilts her head slightly, soliciting more of the lazy exploration, the slight roughness of his fingertips as they glide over her skin an evocative, intensely sensual experience. The pad of his thumb brushes over her lips, drawing a slow, delicate outline that makes her sigh softly and turn into him, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against the palm of his hand.

Looking up, she finds those brown eyes gazing down at her, their stare fixed and immovable, resolutely patient in the face of something so serious.

"Condition met," she murmurs. "Unequivocally."

It’s a gentle kiss they share then, gentle and unhurried. Familiar, but no less significant because of it, and when they draw apart and she rests her head on his shoulder, Grace again lets her mind wander back through the years, through the good and bad times, the fights and disappointments, the laughter and the affection, and the precious handful of truly perfect moments.

“And,” he says, the word vibrating through his broad chest, “you never _ever_ use my razor to shave your legs.”

Knowing he can’t see it, she smirks. “You can’t add extra conditions after the deal’s done, Boyd.”

“Who says?”

"The law."

"Grace, I've spent my entire adult life working with and defending the law, and I can assure there is no such legal precedent."

She shakes her head, reaches up to fiddle with the collar of his shirt, knowing it will distract him, divert his full attention away from their discussion. "Oh, but there is, and you know it. It's an unwritten law – one of those unspoken rules that so effectively govern polite society."

"Polite society..." His disgusted tone trails off quickly as the top button of his shirt surrenders, allowing her fingers to find the smooth, warm skin beneath it and begin to explore.

He clears his throat, takes a deep breath in an attempt to regain his concentration. Asks, "And anyway, since when did either of us care about following the rules?"

As she answers with a deliberate roll of her eyes, the next button capitulates, and the one below it. It’s fascinating to watch the subtle way his expression shifts, the way his pupils, already large in the softly-lit room, dilate even further. A decade and a half since they first met, and there’s still a dangerous chemistry between them, one they’ve both been known to exploit in their favour from time to time. The sort of chemistry that other people sense and recoil from, mystified. Toying with the next button, a tempting promise, she inquires, “Would you like to argue about this some more, or…?”

His eyes give her the answer she is looking for, hoping for, even as he voices a husky, "No."

That single syllable is powerful in its implication, though; powerful, and incredibly enticing. Grace is well aware that her pulse has speeded up, even before he lowers his mouth to hers, his lips caressing hers in a kiss that is languid and slow, but still so heated, and so thorough that when they finally part she feels genuinely dazed.

Under her palm she can feel the raw, exciting heat of him, can detect the way his heart rate has increased and his breathing quickened. It’s more than enough to make her simultaneously seize his hand and start into motion, her focus firmly on the living room door and the stairs beyond. Boyd yields to her without question or struggle, lets her tow him in her wake, and they’re out into the hall, darker and cooler than the room they’ve just left, almost before she’s consciously aware of her actions. He stops, halting her just as she gains the first stair, and when she turns to see what the problem is, she finds she can look him straight in the eye, the height difference between them eliminated.

Before she can stop herself, she's kissing him again, and this time there's none of their earlier laziness. This time there is only heat and passion, a tide of want and need washing over them both in a tangle of lips and tongues, of roaming hands and muffled expletives as clothing refuses to surrender to the insistent struggle to locate tiny buttons and hidden fastenings in the gloom.

Pulling out of the kiss, she takes a step back, earning a deep growl of displeasure and a tightening of the arms that immediately capture her against his body, effectively preventing any escape.

"No," he growls again, returning his lips to her own. It’s no hardship at all to acquiesce, to revel in the taste of him, the raw male potency of him, to give and take with all the love and lust she possesses. She feels him shift his weight, feels him flex, and suddenly she’s off her feet and being carried bodily up the stairs. Locking her arms round his neck, Grace laughs, lost in the wonder and joy of it all. It seems to cost him no effort, the rapid, impulsive ascent, and not for the first time she exults in his seasoned strength, his sheer physical prowess.

They reach the summit quickly, but he doesn't put her back down on her feet as she expects. Instead it's not until they move into the sanctuary of the bedroom that he lets her slither to the floor, lets her return to the assault on his neck and jaw as she kisses a pathway up to his lips, her fingers sliding through the soft thickness of his hair as she loses herself in the complex tangle of feedback that is flooding each and every one of her senses.

His hands are moving, slow in some places, quick in others, eliciting a soft moan and an expectant, delighted shiver. Clothes slide away from skin, forming a host of colourful islands on the expanse of dark charcoal carpet. They are forced to break apart to breathe, and as Grace fumbles for the switch on the bedside lamp, and he toes the door shut behind them, they maintain the heated gaze their eyes are locked into, a conversation steeped in silence passing between them.

The world has melted away now; it's just her and him. Just them. And as they reach the bed together, still ensnared in the intensity of that joint stare, Grace can feel the frenzy die away, can feel the way it is replaced instead with something slower, something infinitely more artless and tender. Boyd eases closer, one hand stroking softly down the length of her arm as he lowers his head; nuzzling gently against her temple, he brushes the tiniest of kisses there, and breathes just three soft, heartfelt words into her ear.

\- the end -


End file.
